


Lost Boys

by Leticheecopae



Series: Dealings with Demons [5]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Child Abuse, Eye Trauma, F/F, PTSD, Past Meenah/Aranea, Sexual Content later on, Violence, minor character death later on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-16 17:10:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11833257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leticheecopae/pseuds/Leticheecopae
Summary: Tavros is missing, has been for months now, and Vriska can't tell which would be worse; to live her life forgetting about him or trying to figure out how to get him back. She's only glimpsed what's out there, hiding in the world, and she's not sure she can deal with it. She's not sure she can deal withGamzee. But she is driven, tenacious, and even though she's one eye and one arm down, she has no problem stealing a little luck if it means finding her Peter Pan again. Especially now that she has a way of actually stealing it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh look, this story is FINALLY READY to get posts to it! There will be around 6 or 7 chapters for this one. I hope you all enjoy it pulling some pieces together!

Vriska hates driving with Aranea, but she doesn’t have a choice anymore. She can’t drive her stick-shift with one arm, and she’s not allowed to drive the automatic yet either; not with one eye. Even one accident and the insurance will be too damn high for Aranea to afford, so she’s stuck riding shotgun. 

“Want to head down to Antwood Street? Remember all the good stuff they had last year?” Aranea sets the blinker as she turns with the grace of a snail.

Vriska grunts as she looks out the window. “You mean that stack of encyclopedias?”

"Oh come on, you got some good stuff too." 

Vriska shrugs. She does have to admit she had gotten a couple of good books and a pair of shoes that had intact soles last year. Maybe she’ll find some new ones again. Her converse are wearing awfully thin around the toes.

Vriska watches as garage sales whip past her as Aranea drives through the small town. Once a year, the surrounding small towns near their suburb in Ohio -about an hour away- come together, put all their junk on their lawns and slap painters tape on everything in sight. Stuff spills out of buckets, off of tables, and bursts from dusty boxes. The town squares have local shops out with food and refreshments, churches sell warm soups by the bowl, and the smell of burnt sugar and wood is everywhere.

With only a working right eye, the passing junk is all Vriska sees. There is no peripheral of the windshield, nor any of the dash, just the window she faces and the world outside. Not a single one of the houses they pass seem to have anything good as Aranea’s crawl by.

The blinker goes off again. "I hope that blue house from last year has more books.” Excitement tinges her words.

Vriska rolls her eyes. “Like we need any more.” Vriska has enough books. She cleaned the last garage sale out of all the ones she wanted and only spent two bucks for the ten hardbacks. The woman had no idea how to haggle. It had helped that Vriska’s metal clad arm gets her some great pity discounts. Some of the books hadn't even been things she necessarily enjoys, like the history ones. Something about history has always bothered her; it just never caught her eye without that hint of fiction. But whatever, she can always sell them later for a possible profit.

Aranea turns up her nose. “You can never have enough books.”

Vriska gives huff. “Says the girl who is currently using every flat surface as a bookshelf. How many did you borrow from work this time? Fifteen?”

“It was only five,” Aranea replies curtly. “The other ten were from the library. Though speaking of work, when’s the next time you want me to take you to Half Price? I know you have more to sell, and we have a sale coming up.”

Vriska shrugs and closes her eyes. It’s odd that she can still feel the blind eye rolling around in her socket. She can tell which way it is turning, if it’s dry or not, and the eye feels pain when dust gets into it, but there is no visual signal to her brain. All she gets from the left side is a big empty nothingness.

The car gently bounces as Aranea chats away about work. She babbles about how it is shelving box after box of books every day, how so-and-so was found trying to steal bibles, and that one guy was caught hiding additional records in a single vinyl sleeve. Vriska tunes her out and looks through a half-lidded eye at the dim day that stretches before her.

Above them, there are heavy, rolling clouds that lay over the earth like an endless blanket. Her heartbeat picks up a little as she stares up at the sky. It’ll rain soon. It’ll rain, and the thunder will come with wind; cold, icy wind that...

“-riska.”

Vriska jumps at the hand that taps at her back. She jerks sharply and finds Aranea’s blue eyes trained on her, and Vriska knows that her sister is looking for the signs from the hospital pamphlet. Aranea keeps it in her purse, tucked down under her current book and wallet. Vriska saw the worn piece of paper fall out when Aranea had been trying to find her checkbook to pay off last month's electric bill.

Their mother uses her copy of the pamphlet as a coaster.

“You okay? We can always head home early.”

“And miss out on scamming a few more saps out of their family heirlooms? You’re going soft on me, Ranee.” Vriska gives a grin and Aranea rolls her eyes. 

“The chances of you finding another hollowed out book filled with jewelry is a million to none.” Aranea makes another turn. 

“If I can do it once I can do it again,” Vriska replies. “You never know what kind of treasure people stash away and forget about.”

“Well, maybe we’ll get lucky here then.” Aranea pulls up to the curb. “I can’t remember this house ever joining in on the garage sales.” 

Vriska looks back towards the lawns. Before them is one of the older houses on the block with a gabled roof and wrap around porch. Whoever had built it had been going for Victorian. Vriska just sees it as gaudy in comparison to the other houses on the block. She approves.

“Looks like they might have some good shit,” Vriska replies as she opens her door and steps out. Cool air flutters her hair and pushes it against her face. The blonde is tinged in almost a seafoam like color, the dye washing out slowly over the last month. Not for the first time this week she reminds herself to get Aranea to help her re-dye it. 

“Oh, my goodness,” Aranea almost squeals. “Look over there; those tables are about to snap!”

Vriska looks at what her sister is talking about. There are multiple tables full of hardback books with random items stacked on top or placed in between. Old looking, but well kept, furniture holds even more books, knick-knacks, and other pieces that look too nice for Vriska to call junk. 

“Damn. They having a moving sale?” Vriska looks at a nice looking bookcase pushed up against the side of the house in between two bushes; the heavy wood looks like it’s been oiled with the sun itself. Too bad Aranea’s little car can’t fit it. Otherwise, it would be a great buy; Aranea really needs some more bookshelves somewhere in the house.

“Oh, we can only hope.” Aranea quickly walks onto the lawn where quite a few people are roaming around. 

Vriska lets herself smirk a little before following her sister. The tables used to hold the books are definitely borrowed from somewhere, the white plastic clashing with everything placed on it. Vriska looks over a table and finds most of it to be world history books, old ones that are probably so out of date they should be considered history themselves. While she likes the look of them, she passes them by and heads to the next table. This one is a miss-match of clothing and books. There are a few pairs of shoes, but all of them are too large for her by at least two sizes.

“Damn,” she mutters as she comes across a pair of soft leather boots. They look as old as the books on the table, but the leather seems completely intact and the souls are barely worn. “Wonder if I could just shove some socks in here.”

“If you did then I can assure you that you would regret it.”

Vriska does her best not to jump before turning to look at the woman next to her. She is tall, dressed in an emerald long-sleeved dress with a high collar and a hem that ends at her ankles. The collar opens almost like a slash, allowing a thin line of flesh to be seen down to a hint of cleavage on an almost flat chest. Vriska finds herself having to tilt her head back to see the woman’s face. 

A youthful visage looks down at her, and despite the age that the clothing seems to boast, Vriska can’t believe that the woman before her could be more than ten years her senior; definitely less than thirty.

“Wearing shoes that are too large for you can cause serious problems,” she tells her. Her hair is cut close to her head, and it curls in ringlets against her face. The color of her skin reminds Vriska of the caramels her father used to eat and her eyes are greener than the grass on the other side of anyone’s fence. 

The smile she gives makes Vriska feel something sharp and warm in her belly, like she had just drank a cup of freshly brewed tea. 

“What size are you? I might have a few others that fit you. I have to admit I used to think I could squeeze my own feet into a smaller space. I paid for that quite a few times.” 

“8,” she replies, eyes still stuck on the woman.

“Let me see what I can find.” She sweeps past Vriska and the table. Vriska watches her go, barely blinking, until she stops at the paying table. Her back is to Vriska as she talks to someone. It takes Vriska a moment to realize she’s still staring and quickly turns back to the table. The books aren’t really anything she’s interested in, at least not in a reading sense, though they are somewhat cool looking. The tomes have old leather bindings that boast the names of classics she’d never read outside of school.

“Wonder if there are any first editions.” She opens the cover of _Jane Eyre_ and feels her heart pick up. 1847 looks back up at her. She goes to another book, and despite its fantastic condition, a similarly old date looks up at her out of barely yellowing pages.

“Holy shit.” She can’t let Aranea see these. Not if she’s going to sell them at the bookstore. Her sister will keep them to herself for sure. Vriska starts looking at more, opening and closing covers as she makes a little pile. Her foot hits something under the table.

“More?” Already she’s thinking about what she could get for this stuff. Maybe she should say screw the bookstore and try and sell them online. Help Aranea pay off some of the bills for her arm and get herself some new shoes as well. 

Vriska pulls out the box with a few jerks. It’s heavy, and rightfully so. Kneeling, she looks down at the insanely old look tomes inside. At a glance, she feels like she may have just hit the motherload, but then that quickly dies.

“Damn it,” she murmurs as she realizes she can’t read a single cover. “What is this, Latin? Would they take Latin?” Picking up a book, she looks it over and tries to figure out what it is. A few flips through the page and she finds what look like old medical charts inside. 

“Is this a first edition!”

Vriska smacks her head on the underside of the table.

“Oh goodness, sorry,” Aranea says while her hands go about piling books in her arms.

Vriska jumps up. “Hey! I saw those first!”

“And I grabbed them first,” Aranea replies. “These are going right over my bed.”

“But we could sell those!”

Arenea looks appalled. “Do you have any idea how rare these must be?”

“Yeah, and the second Mom sees them she’ll go into a rage about buying crap with _her_ money and destroy them.”

Aranea goes to protest but quickly snaps her mouth shut. “Damn,” she mutters under her breath as she hugs the books tight. “Well. Let’s see how much they want. I can take you to the west store, and you can see what you can get for them.”

“That’s what I was thinking.” Vriska looks back in the box. “Think they’d take Latin?”

“Latin?” Aranea sets her stack down and stoops next to her sister. “Oh my god,” she breathes. “These are amazing.”

“Think we could sell these?”

“Online maybe, possibly to an antique shop, but I don’t know if the store could do anything with these. If we can’t find it online, then we can’t price it.”

“Should we take the box then?” Vriska kneels back down and starts to lift and drop books as she speaks. She feels something soft and smooth as she shoves her hand down to the bottom of the box. 

“I don’t know if we could afford the whole box.” Aranea gets up. “I’ll go ask what the asking price is.”

Vriska grunts in response as she tries to maneuver whatever she’s found out of the bottom of the box. Ananea starts to reach in to help her.

“I can get it,” Vriska snaps. She’s almost got the damn thing.

“I just thought...Okay,” Aranea replies gently. “I’ll be right back.” 

Vriska concentrates on the box so she doesn’t have to see whatever hurt look is on Aranea’s face. Instead, she focuses on moving books around. Some go on top of the table, others get shifted to the side, and finally, she finds the book.

“What the hell is this?” Viska hauls out the large leather book. It is a dark stain of orangish brown, like red earth. Symbols she can’t quite fathom are scrawled in faded, dusty gold on the spine, and just above a strip of leather that is keeping the book shut is what looks like a sun. It’s too faded to tell for sure if the markings beneath it are beams of light or more symbols.

Vriska digs her fingers under the leather band, looking for whatever is keeping it shut. The edges of the strap comes up, but it doesn’t release. She flips it over to see if maybe that’s where the clasp is, but the strip seems to be apart of the back cover.

“How in the-”

“Vriska, how much money do you have?” Aranea asks as she rushes over.

“How much they want?” Vriska asks immediately. 

“100 for the whole box and what’s on the table!” Aranea squeals.

“What!” Vriska stands, the book tucked under her arm.

“They’re moving and don’t want to lug the books around! She said that no one has seemed interested so far and they don’t want to go through the hassle of online selling. Can you believe it!” 

Vriska’s face splits into a grin. “And you said I wouldn’t find treasure in a book again.”

“Oh shut up, but really, how much do you have? I only have 35 left.”

Vriska’s heart sinks.

“Twenty five.”

Anarea’s face falls. “Damn. Well...maybe we can at least get the books on the table.”

“And this one,” Vriska adds as she hold it up.

“What’s that?”

Vriska shrugs. “No idea, diary maybe?”

“You want some old diary?”

“Hey, you never know what it might lead to.”

Aranea shakes her head with a small laugh. “Alright. Let me go ask if the 60 is enough.”

“Wait,” Vriska looks at the books. “Put as many as you can in the box and I’ll carry whatever else I can. If we bring them all over, maybe they’ll take pity and let us take whatever we can carry.”

Aranea looks at the pile before shrugging. “Worth a shot, though let's swap out some of the latin. Rather take ones we know will sell than ones that we can’t even value.”

It takes a couple of minutes to gather up the books, exchanging a lot of the latin out for the ones on the table, and then Aranea pulls the box over the dead grass while Vriska uses her braced arm as a table. The sling helps as well, the books settling inside. It hurts a little, especially with the big leather one on the bottom. Vriska gets there first.

“Oh, sorry, dear,” the tall woman says as soon as she Vriska approaching. “But neither of us think we’ll have anything your size. Two different ends of the size spectrum and all. My apologies.”

Vriska feels confused for a moment before she realizes that she’s talking about the shoes. “Oh, it’s no problem. I think we found something else.” She steps to the side as Aranea pulls the box over with another jerk.

“Oh my, you didn’t have to bring these all over here,” the tall woman exclaims.

“We thought you may want to look through them, you know, just in case,” Aranea replies. 

Vriska feels like slapping her upside the head. _”Now they’re going to take some back for sure,”_ she thinks. 

“Well that was kind of you,” comes from behind the tall woman. Vriska looks over at the woman sitting behind the table. Her skin is darker than the taller woman’s, has hair looks like white honey, and her body is thick with curves in comparison to the other woman’s height and angles. 

She gives Vriska a smile. “We can help you get them to your car, though we will need payment first.”

“Right, how much do you have, Sis?” Aranea looks at Vriska, making it seem as if they haven’t talked about price yet.

“Twenty five.” She knows they can’t low-ball here, not with the stuff they could get. They’re already going forty under the asking price.

“What? I thought you had fifty left.” Aranea’s face falls. Sometimes Vriska thinks she could have been an actor. When she actually knows the part to play, she’s damn good at it.

“Nope, I used the other 25 for gas.” Vriska lets her own face fall. 

“I’m sorry, girls, but 60 is a little too light for all the books on that table,” the plump woman says. “But I’ll let you keep what you have there.” She gives Vriska a smile. It is pleasant enough, but it also makes her feel a tad uneasy; like she knows the real reason they brought all the books over.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go over th-” Aranea starts.

“If Rose starts, then she won’t stop,” the tall woman says.

“Kanaya, I’m appalled that you would insinuate that I can’t let go of things.”

Kanaya gives Rose a knowing look that receives a smile.

“Please, go ahead and-” Kanaya pauses. “Wait, what is that one?” She points to the large one Vriska is holding. Vriska’s heart falls as Kanaya turns to the blonde woman. “Rose, I thought you said you had all of those accounted for _in_ the house.”

Rose gives a little shrug. “Oops. I thought I had. It must have slipped my mind.”

Kanaya continues to glare at her a moment longer before turning to Vriska. She gives her a gentler, yet strained look. 

“I’m afraid that one isn’t for sale,” she holds out her hand. “Let me help you get it loose.”

Vriska does her best not to pout as she does as asked. She’s not about to lose the other books. Some of them will probably take a good chunk out of their bills if she and Aranea play their cards right. Still, what the hell is in the book? Is it really a diary? And if it is, why is it written in such a weird language? Is it a secret code? Could she crack it?

All the questions about the book swirl in her as Kanaya helps her untangle it from the sling and the other books.“Ow, ow,” she mutters under her breath as all the books shift back and settle. Kanaya gives her a sympathetic smile.

“Rose,” she says as she looks over her shoulder. “Are you sure there isn’t a set of boots or shoes that might fit her somewhere?”

Rose heaves a slightly dramatic sigh. “I don’t know,” she says and taps at her chin. 

Kanaya steps away from them and goes to stand behind Rose. Her long fingers alight on Rose’s shoulders, massaging them gently. “I know you have another box around here.”

“Hmmmm, do I?” She smiles and lets Kanaya massage her shoulders a bit more.

Vriska watches on with a gentle blush. They’re cute, really they are, but she wishes they’d make up their minds about what is happening. She really needs to put these books down. Her arm is starting to get really sore, the pressure of the books pushing the braces aches in the healing bone. 

“Well, I think there may be one more box in under table six.” She leans back and places the leather book underneath the table and out of sight. “And I suppose you’ll be having me stick with sixty?”

Kanaya gives her a look that seems to beg ‘please’.

“Oh, all right. Sixty for the books and a pair of shoes.”

“Oh my goodness, thank you!” Aranea says as she shoves her hand into her pocket and pulls out her cash. 

“Yeah, thanks.” Vriska does the same, though it is a tad tougher. She has to put down a couple of the books before she can get the wallet out. Aranea helps her extract the cash. She hates it, but she’s not about to try and juggle several books and play surgeon simulator with her wallet.

“Sixty, perfect.” Rose pulls out a box and puts the cash inside before turning to Kanaya. “Help me go through that shoe box, Love?”

Kanaya leans down and pecks a kiss to her nose. “Of course.” 

Vriska feels her face heat again at the public display. 

“Come on, let’s get these in the car,” Aranea says, her foot tapping Vriska’s ankle. 

Vriska nods and tears her eyes away from the happy couple, a small painful spot in her chest. She starts to pick the books she had set down on the table. The now very empty, unguarded table. Aranea is already pulling the box away, and the other two have their backs to her. A tug of curiosity makes her look to the side of the table at the ground. She can’t see any sign of the book.

 _’One more look,’_ she tells herself. _’Just to see if I can figure out what it is.’_ Vriska goes to grab the books, gets most of them into the sling, and then drops one. 

“Fuck,” she grumbles, just loud enough that anyone around can hear her, -not that there are many people nearby- before stooping down. The book fell just under the blanket covering the table, giving her the perfect reason to pull the cloth back. There, out in the open, on top of a box, is the leather tome. The writing twinkles at her in the dim light beneath the table, the leather looks plush, and Vriska stares at it.

 _’They’ve already given you a break, don’t be a dick,’_ she tells herself. Vriska grabs the other book and starts to stand.

 _’But what does it mean?’_ She pauses. _’It doesn’t look like Latin, doesn’t look like anything I’ve ever seen. And Rose didn’t seem to care. Maybe it’s just one of Kanaya’s diaries. And it’s not like I’ll ever see her again. They didn’t even realize it was missing until they saw me holding it.’_

Vriska hears the two women laughing. They’ll be coming back soon. 

_’What if it has something that could help Tavros?’_ The thought sneaks into her mind, sending more questions through her. Could it be something like that? Was that why they wanted it back? If it is then...

“They’ll never miss it, “ she murmurs to herself before scooting the book into her sling. She pushes it right against her chest and then shoves it down inside the sling. It hurts, fuck it hurts, but she gets it pinned between her chest and her brace so that it is hidden behind her arm and the other books, and stacks the last one at a slant on top. 

With a glance, she can tell that both Rose and Kanaya are still looking in a box for the pair of shoes. Vriska keeps them in her peripheral as much as possible as she heads towards the car.

“Here, let me-”

“I’ve got it,” Vriska grunts at her sister. The last thing she needs is for Aranea to see what she’s got. “Go ahead and keep loading up the trunk.” 

Aranea grins and does so, loading her treasure carefully into the car.  
Vriska opens the back door and starts putting books inside. In the backseat is the rest of her stuff from previous sales. She wriggles the large leather tome from her arm, careful not to harm it, and stashes it under her other items. The rest of the books she’s holding get dropped on top, and then Vriska arranges the pile around it until she has a drooping pyramid made of paperback and hardbound books.

“Goodness, I forgot how many shoes I was getting rid of.” Rose’s laugh follows it.

Vriska forces herself not to jump as she pulls back from the door. Rose is coming up, Kanaya behind her.

“Wow,” Vriska says as Rose holds the shoes out for her to look at. “Are you really sure I can have those?” Rose is holding a pair of rich reddish brown boots. They look like they would be about calf height, with small ties on the side instead of zippers.

“I used to love these, but zippers make more sense nowadays. Pity, I always liked this look.”

“I can understand why,” Vriska murmurs. “Do you think they’ll fit?”

“Oh, they’ll fit,” Rose tells her. “Besides, a pretty little thing like you needs something pretty for those light feet of yours.”

Vriska’s face heats.

“Careful Rose,” Kanaya says. “I did see her first.”

Vriska’s heart jumps to her throat, and then in a matter of milliseconds, shoots to her feet as Rose turns to the open the car door. Vriska keeps her emotions tamed, though, at least the worry. This isn’t the first time that she’s nicked something.

“I would have you try them on, but I wouldn’t want you to put that arm of yours through too much more.” She pats the appendage through the sling. It takes a lot of self-control not to wince, the hand hitting right against a screw holding the metal together beneath her skin. 

_'She did that on purpose,'_ Vriska can’t help but think to herself, though why would she try and hurt her? She was just trying to be considerate, right?

“Thanks again for the books,” Aranea says as she shuts the trunk. “And those boots! I might have to steal them from her, though I can tell you right now, you’re really making my sisters day.” 

“More you’re making hers,” Vriska fires back, buttering them up. “If there is anyone out there that loves books more than her, I’d love to meet them, because I’m pretty damn sure they’re lying.”

Rose laughs and Kanaya smirks.

“These are her leftovers and duplicates,” Kanaya says as she drapes an arm around Rose’s shoulders. “So you may have met your match.”

“Is your bed being held up by them?” Vriska asks with a grin. Aranea frowns.

“Are you still able to walk into your study?” Rose asks.

Vriska feels her face kind of flicker. Study? Oh right, some people had actual rooms to store shit in.

“We uh…”

“Not everyone has rooms they can dedicate to their collections, love,” Kanaya says gently. “Let alone two.”

“Two!” Aranea gasps before looking wistfully up at the house. She misses the flash of smugness on Rose’s face before giving she gives a soft ‘oh’ and lets her face fall into mild shyness. Vriska does not.

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to be snide.”

 _’Really?’_ Again, Vriska can’t stop the thought. Despite her apologetic look, she doesn’t feel all that apologetic.

“It’s okay,” Vriska replies. “I’m sure she’d have the whole house filled if she wasn’t stuck with me and mom.”

“Well you two are lucky to have her,” Kanaya replies. “Woman who read books make the best companions.”

“Usually because we’re too preoccupied to see what’s really happening around the house.” Rose winks at Vriska. 

Vriska feels a sudden need to punch the woman before her. Instead, she uses her tongue.

“Must be why you didn’t realize how many duplicates you had or how you were misplacing things.”

Both women go a bit still.

Aranea looks between them all, her eyes darting around like a bird in Vriska’s peripheral. 

“Thank you again,” Aranea chirps quickly as Rose goes to open her mouth. “You have no idea how much-”

“This means to you, yes. I do hope you enjoy them, and that you like the boots.” Rose replies. She pats Vriska’s arm again, and this time there is more force behind it as it hits a bolt. 

“I hope your move goes well.” Vriska’s smile is tight.

A chilly wind blows between them all, ruffling Vriska’s long hair around her face. Vriska finds herself blinking in confusion as Rose smirks. Was it a trick of the wind and her poor depth perception, or did Rose’s hair just blow against the breeze?

“I hope you enjoy your book.”

Vriska’s heartbeat spikes as Rose smirks. 

“Oh, and I’d run on home if I were you,” she adds. “The storm’s coming. Wouldn’t want you getting caught in the downpour.” As she motions at the sky, a low rumble comes from the horizon.

The reaction is almost immediate. Vriska feels her chest tighten, the hair on her body stands on edge, and suddenly everything is too cold.

“Vriska?” Aranea asks as she closes the rear door.

Vriska does her best to keep herself under control. She’s right next to the car, she just has to reach out and grab the handle and she can get inside. The rain won’t touch her, the lightning won’t hurt her, she’ll be safe and sound and-

A cold, fat drop of rain hits her cheek, below her left eye. 

She slams into the side of the car as she struggles with the door handle.

 _”Open, open, open, open-”_ The handle keeps coming up, but the lock isn’t releasing.

“Ranee,” she manages, voice tight. How did the door get locked? Weren’t all the doors just opened? Her sister quickly dashes around to the driver side door.

Rose’s voice is sing-song next to her, “Have a pleasant drive.” 

“Rose,” she hears Kanaya hiss. Vriska doesn’t care; there is rain coming. Vriska can’t be outside. She needs to be covered, where the icy rain can’t get her, where _he_ can’t get to her. A strangled sound escapes her.

“Vriska, stop, I can’t get it unlocked if you don’t stop!”

Vriska forces herself to pause as more heavy drops splatter against her arm and head. She hears the click as Aranea turns the key in her door and the car unlocks. 

The door screams in protest as she almost wrenches it off its hinges and throws herself inside. Vriska falls in on her bad arm. She can’t hold back her cry of pain.

“Vriska, breathe, it’s okay. You’re inside, you-”

“Drive.” Oh god, it’s on her, the cold is all over her. She needs heat; she needs to be dry.

“But you need to calm-”

“I said to fucking drive!” she screams before ducking her head down. Her hair is wet, not by much, but enough that she bats at it with her good arm in attempts to keep the cold water from running down her neck. 

“Is she alright?” Vriska looks over to find Kanaya standing next to the open car door, her eyes wide in concern. A chilling wind blows in past her. Another sound slips out of Vriska and god she _hates_ that sound.

“We’ll be fine. Thank you again!” Aranea replies hastily as she throws the key in the ignition. Kanaya closes the door for Vriska, cutting off another sudden blast of wind. It rattles against the car window as Aranea turns the key in the ignition and begins to drive. Vriska barely notices Kanaya pull Rose roughly towards the house, too preoccupied with cranking the heater to high as she continues to bat at the moisture that still seems to cling to her.

“Seatbelt,” Aranea tells her as she rolls through a stop sign. Vriska does as she’s told before gripping the seat with her right hand and letting her head fall forwards. There is a drop of water on her glasses, and she rips them off and drops them on the dash. Aranea doesn’t say anything.

If Vriska hadn’t been hyperventilating into the car’s armrest, she would have been proud of her sister’s speed in getting them home.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap. Three different re-writes of this chapter and I actually managed to get it done in time for Halloween! WOO! I hope you all enjoy the chapter!

Aranea gets as close to the garage as possible, the car parking somewhat sideways so Vriska’s door is as level with it as Aranea can get. She doesn’t say anything as she jumps out of the car, goes to the door and unlocks it, then throws the metal door upwards. It screams along with the wind, making Vriska’s hair stand on edge.

Still moving quickly, Aranea jumps back into the car and scoots it closer. She can’t pull in, what with Vriska’s Jeep as the garage’s current resident, but she can get the nose of her little car inside.

“Go on,” she tells Vriska. “I can get the books later.”

Vriska shakes her head. They've outrun the storm so far, but the wind is still buffeting them. Yet she can’t let it break her. Those noises she had made when the rain had hit her are still in her head, ringing, and she has to do _something_ to prove that the icy bastard doesn’t have a stranglehold on her when it comes to rain. 

“I’ll get my stuff now,” she tells Aranea. “As much as I can carry. You should do the same. Make it look like we got less than we did.”

Aranea pauses. “I can just bring your-”

“Just get your shit, Aranea,” Vriska snaps. She throws open her car door and holds back a hiss as the cold wind hits her. The rain isn’t far behind them. She needs to move.

Aranea runs to the trunk while Vriska opens the back passenger door and fills up her arms. The thick leather tome goes into her sling first before she uses the boots and some of the books she bought to cover it. She leaves the rest of the ones from Kanaya and Rose. The less of those they bring in, the better. She can always help Aranea with them later tonight when their mother is tangled up in her web of blankets and booze. As long as the rain is gone that is.

“I’m heading in!” Vriska calls over the wind. Aranea waves a hand above the open trunk to signal that she heard her.

Vriska turns away, the books crushing into her arm, and heads into the house. The first thing she hears is the music. It comes from down the hall, the same one her and her sister’s rooms are in, and Vriska relaxes a little. The further down she goes, the easier she feels. Her mother’s door is closed, which means that she’s either writing, journaling, or passed out on her bed. It’s easier to get around the small house when she’s not out in the living room with a bottle of brandy by the couch.

The door to Vriska’s bedroom opens with a shove from her good shoulder and closes with a firm push of her foot. Besides the light coming in through her shaded widow, it is dark, and Vriska has to shuffle her feet to keep from tripping over anything. Her room isn’t messy per say; she keeps it liveable, and there aren’t towers of literature threatening to topple on her. Still, in the dark, her floor is a minefield of items she can trip over. 

Her bed is a grey island against the wall, and the second she reaches it, the books tumble out onto the mattress. The hefty tome catches on a screw and makes her hiss as it goes with the rest. She waits to feel any wetness with the heat in her arm, but it doesn’t come.

Good. At least she won’t have to try and get blood stains out of her clothing tonight. That, and cleaning around the screws after she’s bled always makes her worry that she’s rusting. She can’t wait for the bones in her arm to fully adhere to the new metal of her skeleton. Having a brace that doesn’t have metal protruding from her skin in places, in general, will be wonderful. She still has a couple of weeks until then, though. 

Groping in the dark, Vriska pulls on a metal string next to her bed. The lamp blares to life, the light blue of the shade coloring the beams that spill over the room. Old pictures and drawing going back as far as elementary school plaster her walls, the newer ones from online Role Playing sessions. Most of the stories and characters are from archs long over, the people she’d played with lost in the ether of the internet, but she still keeps the characters.

“Let’s find these a home,” she grumbles as she looks down at some of the books she’d taken from the car. She doesn’t own near as many books as Aranea, but her shelf is still full. The bottom filled with dusty game manuals that haven’t been touched since—

“Not there.” She tears her eyes from the books and shoos away memories of being behind a screen while spinning a tale for Tavros and the few others who had joined them on their conquests. In tabletop games, it had never mattered if he was in a wheelchair or not. In those, he could fly.

She should really sell those books.

The rest of Vriska’s shelves are jammed with knick-knacks and books ranging in age and interest. She pushes aside a couple of magic 8 balls and finds herself having to rearrange the collection yet again. One 8-Ball is nothing but joke responses, another is Halloween themed, and each after that is different in some way to the usual, either in look or response. They look out into the room, 8’s presented, and wait to give her answers on nights where she doesn’t much like listening to her own head.

“Here we go.” She finds a space above some books and starts shoving the new tomes in sideways. It’s not pretty, the books slanting over the ones beneath, but they end up fitting. She’s not sure where they’ll put the others still in the car. Maybe her closet? At least then she can boast she has a library in there like her sister. Hell, she’s not even sure if Aranea has clothing left in her closet at this point.

Outside there is a distant rumble. 

Vriska swallows against the tightness that fills her throat. She’s home, she’s safe, and it is warm in here, though not as warm as she’d like it.

Vriska pulls on a jacket, at least onto her good arm and over her back, before tucking the other arm of it into her splint. It helps with the chill that threatens her skin, or at least most of it. She has heat packs somewhere in her desk drawers. If it comes to it, she can grab a few and pad her splint with them. It wouldn’t be the first time.

The knock on her door makes her jump slightly.

“What?” she calls softly as she walks towards it. Aranea opens it with a jerk just before Vriska reaches the doorframe.

“Just wanted to check on you.”

“I’m fine.” She does her best to cross her good arm, but without the other, it just feels like she’s trying to hug herself.

“No offense, sis, but you didn’t seem all that great when we left the sale.”

“And now we’re home.” Vriska put her hand on the door. “I’m inside, the rain is outside, I’m warm, and I have new shit to read. So, like I said, I’m fine.”

She tries to close the door.

“You know you can talk to me.” Aranea refuses to move. Her elbow is locked as she keeps hold of the doorknob. “And remember what your psychiatrist said, you should try and be social during storms. It will help--”

“I’m going to take a nap,” Vriska snaps. “And I’m not about to try and figure out that Tetris puzzle you have going on your bed to do so.”

“I can come in here and--”

Vriska shakes her head. “Uh-uh. You tried to rearrange my entire bookshelf last time. I can’t sleep when you’re screwing up my system.”

“You don’t have a system.”

“Says you.” Vriska tosses her hair over her shoulder. Aranea doesn’t budge.

“Fine,” she sighs. “If it’s still storming when I get up I’ll come out and we can, I don’t know, re-dye our hair or something.”

Aranea immediately perks up. “Good idea! We’re going a tad teal.” Aranea pulls at her dimming streak of blue.

“Yeeeeeeeep.” Vriska holds her breath for a moment as she waits for her sister to shut the door. She doesn’t.

“For fuck sake, Aranea, I am _fine_.”

“Alright, alright.” She starts shutting the door. “I’ll leave you to it then. I hope you have a good nap.” The door sticks for a moment before Aranea opens it a crack. “Don’t forget your pain pills.” Then she jerks it shut against its crooked frame. 

“Finally.” Vriska turns towards the bed where the large leather book sits half covered by the boots and a rumpled part of her faded comforter. Kicking off her shoes, she climbs up onto the low bed. The comforter is soft under her hands, threadbare and ready to tear in places; a greying blue that had once been sky like.

Pulling the book into her lap, Vriska starts to look it over again. The gold writing still doesn’t make much sense to her, not at all. Still, she thinks she can figure out a few of the symbols.

“To the internet,” she murmurs before scooting off the bed and heading to her hulking computer. The frame is old, so is the monitor, but thanks to online sales and manuals, Vriska has managed to keep it alive. The mismatch of parts inside do tend to overheat at times, the new pieces not doing the best with air-flow if what she’s learned is right, but it works for what she needs. As long as she shuts if off at night, it’s not a big deal.

Her chair squeaks under her as she drops the book on top of old school work. Some of it is finished, ready to be turned in and start dropping down her large backlog that needs to be completed for her to graduate in the spring. It would be easy to knock it all out if she wanted. She’s smart, had been doing fine before, but she can never find the drive to put pen to paper when she’s home. Forums are the only places she writes anymore. Well, besides her journal.

As the computer boots up, Vriska pulls at the book again. The leather cover and strap stay closed, not even stretching back to let her peek.

“This has to be some sort of vault thing,” she grumbles. Maybe there’s a hidden switch somewhere? She pushes against the leather, hoping to feel something give, but there is nothing.

With a huff, she dumps it back on the desk as her home screen appears. Her chat client, Pesterchum, pops up. The screen name ‘adiosToreador’ sits gray and lifeless at the top of the contact list. Her cursor hovers over his name. 

’Coming over. Find the Pan DVD.’ It had been the last thing she had messaged him; the last thing she ever said to him. Well, almost.

_‘Pan?’_

Vriska shakes her head quickly. That is the last thing she needs to be thinking about during a storm. She’s still not even sure how much of it was real, what with all the pain, but...there should have been blood, and there wasn’t. There was nothing. Just her and a tree; both bent with broken limbs.

The arrow clicks the X to exit the chat, and she forces herself away from the watered down memories. Tavros was kidnapped, that was all, her new obsession with the occult is just because the guy who took him is probably into it too. Only makes sense. Who else would be out in the rain wearing fake horns and face paint while in the nude? He had brainwashed Tavros and taken him away.

_’Took him to Neverland.’_

Vriska pretends not to hear herself and opens a new search.

“Now how am I going to do this?” She looks at the book’s spine, eye squinting to see if she can figure out any of the writing. It _looks_ like letters, but there is something off about them. Every time she blinks, she has to start over, and the letters always seem to be just a little different. What she thought might be a P is now a B, an O a Q, and other things keep switching. 

She shoves the book away with a sound of disgust. Great. Now what’s going to distract her from the storm?

Not sleep, she hasn't had a good night's sleep since the accident. No matter what her dream starts out as she always ends up in a hallway with never-ending doors screaming for Tavros and then running for her life. 

She opens a chrome window and clicks on a forum shortcut. The page is filled with testimonials and discussions of demon and ghost sightings, some of which have threads that contain discussions and possible fixes for the demonic problems. Others are about possible cults in and around the United States. 

Vriska clicks on her own forum post and looks for any new messages. Besides the user ‘Red-Glare’, very few people have responded to her. There is one new one, though from someone going by Dualscar.

“Just be glad it wvasn’t you he took. You got off easy. But if my friends or I hear anythin wvell let ya knowv.”

“The hell does that mean?” she asks the air as she stares at the name. Clicking on it, she finds that all PMs are turned off, and no e-mail or chat has been made public. “Dick.”

She pulls the chat box back up. There are a few names colored, not that she really cares. There is only one person, in particular, she wants to talk to right now; if she’s on that is. With a slight scroll of the mouse wheel, she finds the teal letters and grins. 

arachnidsGrip has joined chat  
arachnidsGrip is pestering gallowsCalibrator

AG: Heeeeeeeey there redglare. How’s it going?  
GC: WH4T DO YOU W4NT?  
AG: Hostile today, what happened?  
GC: I’M PR3TTY SURE TH4T TH3YRE GOING TO T4K3 TUN4 OFF OF L1FE SUPPORT

Vriska blinks at the text. That was not what she was expecting at all. Redglare had told her about her friend in the hospital, it was something she had brought up on the forum before, but to hear that he might get his plug pulled is a bit jarring.

AG: Wow, really?  
GC: Y3S R34LLY  
GC: 1 K33P G3TT1NG 4 HORR1BL3 F33L1NG 34CH T1M3 1 GO 1NTO TH3 ROOM L1K3 1TS JUST W41T1NG FOR H1M  
GC: HE DO3SN’T H4V3 MUCH T1M3 L3FT  
AG: That sucks.  
AG: Want a distraction?  
CG: YOU M34N DO 1 W4NT TO 4NSW3R 4 QU3ST1ON?

Vriska pouts at her computer. 

AG: Come on, I found something really cool today. My sis and I went to a 8unch of sales and I found this old leather 8ook.   
CG: F4SC1N4T1NG  
AG: Don’t get sarcastic on me yet. I think talking a8out it m8t perk you up.  
AG: It’s covered in all these weird runes and refuses to open. There’s this leather strap that keeps it closed and I can’t figure out how to undo it.   
AG: I’ve tugged at it, looked for a switch, 8ut nothing happens!  
AG: It’s like it was sealed shut.  
CG: TH3N 1’D S4Y L34V3 1T S34L3D YOU DON’T W4NT TO 1NV1T3 4NYMOR3 W31RD SH1T 1NTO YOUR L1F3 DO YOU?  
AG: 8ut what if it’s something cooooooool? Like family jewels or something?  
CG: WHY TH3 H3LL WOULD TH4Y S3LL 1T TO YOU 1F 1F H4D F4M1LY J3W3LS?  
AG: I can dream can’t I?  
CG: WH4T’S 1T LOOK L1K3?

Vriska pulls up her webcam and aims it at the book, making sure that the spine and cover are in frame. She clicks the picture before sending it through Persterchum.

AG: Soooooooo, what do you think?  
CG: 1 TH1NK MY COMPUT3R 1S T3LL1NG M3 1 H4V3 4 PHOTO 4TT4CHM3NT

“Fuck.” Vriska almost smacks herself in the head. It’s strangely hard to remember that Redglare is blind. 

AG: Whoops, forgot.   
CG: M1ND JUST D3SCR1B1NG 1T TO M3?  
AG: Well, it’s this really pretty orangish leather, I think the lettering is gold leaf, and it has that leather strap I was talking a8out.  
CG: 4NY WORDS?  
AG: None that I can actually understand.  
CG: 4ND YOU C4N’T OP3N 1T?  
AG: Nope.  
CG: 4NYTH1NG 3LS3?  
AG: There is a sun on the front, I think. Can’t really tell. Everything on it is suuuuuuuuper faded. I think it’s old, 8ut it’s in really good condition. Think it m8t 8e anything?  
CG: NO 1D34 S331NG 4S 1M4G3S 4R3N’T MY STRONG3 SU1T

Vriska chews on her lip. Damn it; she had hoped Redglare would be able to help her more. Maybe give her some idea, but she’s right. If Vriska can’t tell her what the book says then she’s practically useless.

AG: Think it m8t have something in it that can help Tavros?

She stares at the screen, waiting.

CG: 4R3 YOU S3R1OUS?  
AG: Of course I am. When do I ever joke a8out that stuff? Could have stuff about the cult.  
CG: 1F TH4T’S WHY YOU BOUGHT 1T TH3N 1’D S4Y BURN 1T NOTH1NG GOOD 3V3R COM3S FROM SH1T L1K3 TH1S.  
AG: Come oooooooon, it’s just a 8ook. Nothing 8ad can come from just opening it.   
CG: 1 WOULD C4LL YOU 4N 1D1OT M1NDF4NG, BUT 1 KNOW YOU’R3 NOT  
CG: ST4Y 4W4Y FROM SH1T L1K3 TH4T 1T’S PROB4BLY HOW T4VROS GOT H1S 4SS SN4TCH3D 1N TH3 F1RST PL4C3

Vriska frowns.

AG: Then it’s the 8est place to start.

She waits for a moment, watching the computer and waiting. There is nothing for a long while before she finally gets a response.

CG: L1ST3N, 1’V3 GOT TO GO PROM1S3D MY S1ST3R 1’D GO TO TH3 HOSP1T4L W1TH H3R TOD4Y  
AG: Sounds like a fun way to spend a Saturday night.  
CG: 1’V3 GOT 4 F3W TH1NGS 1 W4NT TO TRY ST1LL 1 JUST HOP3 TH3 C4R4W4Y S33DS SHOW UP 1N T1M3  
AG: Let me know if you think of anything that m8t help me open the 8ook!  
CG: L1K3 H3LL 1 W1LL, JUST BURN TH3 TH1NG, S4LT TH3 4SH3S, 4ND FORG3T 4BOUT 1T  
AG: Yeah yeah.   
CG: 1’M S3R1OUS  
AG: Fiiiiiiiine.  
CG: WHY DON’T 1 B3L13V3 YOU

Vriska doesn’t respond, just stares at the computer.

CG: JUST B3 S4F3 M1NDF4NG DON’T GO G3TT1NG YOURS3LF K1LL3D  
CG: YOU’R3 NO GOOD TO T4VROS D34D

gallowsCalibrator ceased pestering arachnidsGrip

Vriska glares at the screen. 

“Like I’m going to let myself get killed by a book,” she grumbles. “I survived a tree falling on me.”

 _’Only because Tavros sold himself for you,’_ she thinks to herself. She looks over at the book, and not for the first time, reminds herself that she owes him for that. Only way to pay him back is to get him away from Gamzee, wherever they may be.

She gets back online and tries to search for the letters, but ends up with nothing. Some of them are Latin, but others she can’t tell. The fact that the faded images keep changing depending on the light makes it even harder. 

Vriska leans back over her chair and heaves a sigh. “Damn it.” 

Outside there is a sudden crash of thunder that sends her sprinting from her chair and into the wall. She stands panting for a moment, eyes wide as her heart attempts to find it’s way out of her throat.

“It’s okay,” she tells herself. “I’m inside. I’m okay.”

This time she sees the lightning that precedes the thunder. The thunder makes her flinch, though she manages to keep her ground. 

“Vriska?” comes gently through the door. 

“I’m okay,” she calls before quickly going for the knob. At the last second, she manages not to tear the door back but open it with its usual jerk. “I’m fine, really.”

Aranea stands in the hall, a DVD in hand. Vriska can see Robin Williams peaking between her fingers. 

“Want to watch Hook?” she asks quietly.

Vriska’s eyes dart between her and their mother’s door. “You think she’s asleep?”

“I haven’t heard anything,” Aranea replies.

The door behind Aranea stays shut, the music keeps playing, and there is no other sound.

“Okay.” She follows Aranea into the living room, sits down, and tries to listen to Tink. It’s hard, though, seeing as it’s impossible to fly in a thunderstorm. Still, the weather calms down, and with a blanket wrapped around her, Vriska finds herself settling into the movie while she sits in her mother’s recliner. 

They get about halfway through the movie when there is a thud from down the hall. 

“Shit.” Aranea fumbles with the remote and turns the T.V. down. 

“What are you two doing?” 

Vriska turns to find her mother, Mindelynn, standing in the doorway, prosthetic missing and eyes bleary. 

“Sorry, Mom. Did we wake you up?” Aranea asks, standing. “Do you need something.”

Mindelynn shakes her head and walks into the kitchen that is just off the living area. The girls hear the fridge open and close before she comes back holding a blue, plastic water bottle. They both know that their mother stopped storing just ‘water’ in that bottle years ago.

“This storm is giving me a headache,” the woman grumbles as she walks in. Vriska quickly scuttles out of her mother’s chair and to her sister’s side on the couch. Mindelynn flops into her recliner, face haloed in a mess of wavy blonde hair that is thinning near the part.

Vriska looks nervously at Aranea as their mother sits watching the television. Robin Williams is in the middle of a food fight, laughter filling the air as the three women sit listening to the wind outside. Mindelynn moves her arm, the one that ends just above where her elbow would have been, and pauses. She stares down at the stump in confusion.

“Here, Mom. Let me go get your prosthetic.” Aranea says as Mindelynn glares at the stump.

Aranea quickly stands and rushes out of the room and towards the bedrooms. Vriska stays sitting, shifting so that she is in the warm spot Aranea left behind.

“This was your father’s favorite movie,” Mindelynn grumbles before she takes a drink out of the bottle. 

_’Fifty fifty guess if it’s clear rum or vodka,’_ Vriska thinks.

“Used to sit up with you at night and watch it. Damn near destroyed that tape he watched it so much. Only thing that could get you to go to bed.” She takes another drink. Outside, the wind howls and the rain splatters against the roof.

“Switch to the weather channel,” Mindelynn says when a weak rumble reaches their ears. “Let’s see if we’ll be getting a new roof.”

“Ok,” Vriska murmurs as she gets up carefully and starts searching.

“Be damn glad you didn’t lose that arm,” Mindelynn says as she watches Vriska move. It makes her body itch under her mother’s eyes, like the morphine had when they had first given it to her in the hospital. “Otherwise you’d be stuck like me.” She holds out the stump of her arm, the scar at the end twisted. “Least god let you keep yours after he took your man.”

“Tavros wasn’t my man,” Vriska says gently.

“Yeah, and you didn’t lose your eyesight either.” Mindelynn takes another drink.

 _’Where the fuck is that remote?’_ Vriska wonders as she starts to pull apart the couch. On screen, she can hear Tink and Peter talking, though she doesn’t quite hear the words. Her heartbeat is too loud in her ears. 

“Didn’t I tell you to change the channel?”

“Trying to find the T.V. remote.” Vriska pulls up a cushion.

“Just go push the damn button.”

“I can’t,” Vriska replies as she keeps looking. “It’s on the wrong input.” She searches quicker. Outside there is a flash of lightning.

 _’One-one thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand, four—’_ Vriska gets to eight before there is a low rumble. 

“Here, Mom, found it.” Aranea comes in holding the slightly chipped prosthetic. The white plastic is covered in blue sharpie spiderwebs; the only thing Mindelynn let Vriska and Aranea do to dress it up when she had first got it ten years ago.

“Help your sister find the damn remote,” is her thank you. 

“I left it on the—” Aranea pauses as she looks around in confusion. “I left it on the side table.”

“Apparently not,” Vriska grumbles as she keeps looking.

“Maybe I took it into Mom’s room, one second.”

“Hurry up,” Mindelynn calls after her receding form. “I want to know what the fuck we’re in for.” She takes a swig from the bottle. 

Another flash of lightning and Vriska only gets to five before the thunder groans.

“Any luck?” Aranea calls.

“None!” Vriska yells back. _’I’m inside, I’m safe, the rain can’t—’_

“For fuck sake, how hard is it to change the damn channel!” 

Vriska starts to pull off the cushions. _’Come on, where is it. She just had it, where did it go?’_ She drops to her knees and reaches beneath the couch with her good arm, patting at the dust in search of the remote control.

“Vriska?” Aranea’s voice is tight with worry as it floats through the house. Thunder follows.

_’I’m safe. I’m safe. I’m safe.’_

“For fuck sake!” Something hits Vriska’s side. It is long, thin, and heavy; like a tree limb. 

The weight of nothingness weighs on her, and she falls on her side as thunder roars around them.

_”It’s okay, Tink.”_

Rain is hitting her face, hot and wet as it dribbles down her cheeks. The branch lays off to the side. She is freezing.

_”I’m going to neverla—”_

“Get up you stupid, faking cunt. Get up! You’re fine!”

“Mom, stop!”

Vriska shudders on the ground. There is rain all around her. It covers her, paints her in heat as her body grows cold. Where is he? Where did Tavros go? He took him. Took him away to Neverland, but not a good one. He took him to—

“Tavros,” she sobs as she stares upwards, the sky is a dirty white with popcorn-ceiling clouds. 

“Vriska, shhhh, Vriska.” Aranea’s face appears above her.

“Oh shut up, she’s fine,” Mindelynn slurs from her chair. “She still has her arm.”

“Mom, not now,” Aranea hisses before turning back to Vriska. “Hey, sis, it’s okay. You’re inside; you’re okay.”

A peel of thunder rips a shriek from Vriska’s throat. 

“Shut her up!” 

“Mom, be quiet!”

“She’s faking!”

“Mom!”

Vriska can barely hear them over the roar of rain her ears. 

_”Now say goodbye.”_

Her scream mixes with the thunder as Aranea pulls her upwards and hugs her tight.

“You’re inside, you’re safe, there is no rain. You’re okay.” 

Aranea’s belly pins Vriska’s splinted arm between them. Pain blooms in her bone and she sobs. 

“Shhh, shhh, you’re—”

“Suck it up! Your father is gone!”

“This isn’t about Dad, Mom!” Aranea snaps. 

Vriska shudders as she pushes her hurt arm tight against herself. The pain aches inside her and makes her sobs about something more than the rain.

“But he’s—”

“This isn’t about Dad!” Aranea repeats as she gently starts to pull Vriska away. “Shhh, come on. The storm's almost over. Shhhh.” 

“Aranea,” comes from behind them. “Sweetie. Sweetie, where’s your father? Where’s my arm?”

Vriska clings to Aranea. Aranea, not a branch, not a first responder, her sister.

“He took Tavros,” Vriska whimpers as they get to her door. 

“I know, I know. It’s okay, you’re safe now.” She gets Vriska into her desk chair. “Oh God, your eye is bleeding again.” She snatches up a tissue and holds it below Vriska’s blind eye.

Down the hall there is a thud.

“Aranea!”

“I’ll be right back,” Aranea says as Vriska takes in hiccuping sobs. “Just breathe. You’re inside, you’re—”

“S-safe,” Vriska finishes for her. 

“Good.” She pushes a kiss to Vriska’s forehead.

“Aranea!”

“I’ll be right back.” With that, Aranea turns and sprints away, shoving the door shut behind her. It does some to muffle the yells down the hall, but it does not muffle the thunder. 

Vriska struggles to breathe as she turns and braces herself against the side of her desk. She can feel hot liquid stream from her face. She smears the tissue over her eyes and pulls it back. It is stained red.

“Damn it,” she sobs as she drops her head forward. “Damn it!”

Down the hall her cry is met by a roar or despair.

Vriska leans over her desk, blood dripping down her left cheek while tears stream down her right. Her forehead touches something soft, and she welcomes it as she cries. 

“I’m safe,” she gasps between strained breaths. Beneath her forehead, she feels a sudden pulse.

Jerking backward, Vriska stares down wide-eyed at the book. Blinking rapidly, she watches as a few red drops recede into the leather. 

“What the fuck,” she pants as the leather strap slumps off of the cover. “What the fuck?” The gold on the cover swirls, no longer faded. For a moment, despite the smudges on her glasses and the tears in her eyes, Vriska reads: _The Secrets of Light_

The image on the cover becomes that of a sun shining down on a twisted, smiling face just before it pops open to reveal a looping scrawl. Two names are written in brown ink.

_Roxy Lalonde  
Rose Lalonde_

Beneath them, precise, yet slightly messy writing appears in red. Vriska barely registers that it is her own handwriting. 

_Vriska Serket_

“What?” Her eyes grow wide as more writing appears just below her name in the same looping scrawl that the name Rose Lalonde is written in.

_Enjoy Your Bounty, Little Thief._

Vriska screams, down the hall her mother cries, and outside the next round of storms rage on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> —gently hugs her version of Aranea because she puts her through so much bullshit—


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, yes, this story isn't dead. I've unfortunately just gotten behind with it and a few of my older fandoms. Thank you for your patience with slow updates! I hope you enjoy this chapter!
> 
> Also, a new warning for Eye Trauma being added just in case.

arachnidsGrip [AG] has joined chat  
arachnidsGrip [AG] is pestering gallowsCalibrator [GC]

AG: It’s a spell book.

Vriska bites at her nail as she stares at the screen and waits. The book is opened next to her, careful handwriting looping so beautiful it may as well be called calligraphy. 

AG: Are you there?

Of course Redglare isn’t there. Redglare is probably passed out at this ungodly hour, like she should be. But the book is a rabbit hole, Vriska is Alice, and the lack of sleep is starting to do a good job at imitating an LSD trip. 4:13 blares at her from the old clock next to her bed, the red numbers almost too fuzzy for function, but she can still read it, so it’s still by her bed. Another hour and she’ll be able to say it’s morning. 

Her cursor blinks on the screen, unanswered, and her good eye swivels back to the book. 

_The Gift of Foresight_ the book says. The steps are simple. Horrible, but simple, and she already has a head start. 

AG: Hey, could really use some of that 8enevolent 8ack talk right now.  
AG: Found something you’d pro8a8ly tell me to 8urn if possi8le.  
AG: I don’t think this thing would 8urn though.  
AG: Might try that later, if, ya know, you think I should. 8ut that would mean talking to me.

Another stretch of nothing as Vriska bounces one leg and nibbles her thumb down to where skin meets keratin.

The chat stays quiet.

“Fuck it.” Vriska shoves the keyboard away and looks back at the book. 

_To obtain foresight, a sacrifice must be made, the right ingredients must be present, and a number must be chosen to limit the visions. Having uncensored vision will kill the mind before it can be put to use, as Sandaran proved. Poor girl._

Whoever Sandaran was, Vriska doesn’t really care. She’s more concerned with the ‘sacrifice’. 

_Using a blade of lace agate, slice over the cornea. Squeeze until the lens is removed, allowing all inner fluids to fall into a bowl of saltwater soaked in the light of the moon phase that accompanies the number you plan to use._

She looks at the outlined moon phases below, marked one through eight. The eight sits beneath a dark circle. “How do you soak something in moonlight if there’s no moon?” Looking over her shoulder, Vriska notes the small bowl she had placed next to the window a few hours ago. The gleam of starlight glinting dully between the streaks of clouds. There is no moon in the sky.

Vriska moves on.

_Soak the lens and cornea, stirring the water with the lace agate the number of times that matches your chosen moon phase. Repeat the number that will dictate how far you can see out loud. For instance, the number four, meaning you will see ahead by four minutes, four hours, days, weeks, months, years, millennia. Not that it would do you much good to go out that far. Further than a few weeks and it will start to fracture. We’re not set in stone, after all, no matter how much we try to be._

A shiver runs up Vriska’s spine. Outside, the wind whispers around the house and through the gaps in the gutter. The rain is gone, for now, and Aranea is most likely tangled with their mother; a fly trapped beneath one tight arm as the spider sleeps. Vriska looks at her door and debates on checking on them. It has been quiet for a while now; her mother hasn’t made a sound since Aranea got her into her bedroom a few hours ago. 

_”Best to leave them alone,”_ she thinks. Something gently whispers ‘but what about Aranea?’ She shoves it away. Aranea is capable. She has two eyes, two arms, and that’s more than either Vriska or her mother.

_Add drops of blood, equal to the number chosen, and pray to the Secret Keeper._

_Kurloz, send to me knowledge of what can not be known._  
Send to me visions of what has not been seen.  
I give my sight in exchange for yours.  
I give my blood for payment.  
I give my pain.  
I offer a secret of your choosing to pluck from my mind.  
Oh lord Makara, slighted and sealed, give me sight. 

_Once completed, replace your lens and cornea and sew the eye shut. Rub with a paste of fresh henbane._

_You’ll know if it was completed correctly._

Again, Vriska feels skitters of shivers up her back. 

“This reads like a manual,” she murmurs as she flips to a few other pages. She skips over the one that summons the ‘Secret Keeper’, even if she has found herself staring at it a few times. The silhouetted image looks too much like Gamzee for her to look at it for long. 

Instead, she turns to one of the spells she has marked. It is for luck, with much less invasive activities. Still, it says that it will drain the good luck and energy of another being and transfer it to her. One of the other marked spells is a spell of persuasion. 

“Select a trigger phrase and do the following,” she mumbles. She’s already read the introduction a few times, Rose —if the handwriting at the beginning of the book tells her anything— has jammed in notes on how her mother had used the spell on her as a child and how it took implementing the spell on herself to break it. The rest of the scrawl isn’t as neat, more jagged, and the spelling and grammar more of an afterthought by how the letters are mashed together in places. It matches Roxy’s name from the front.

_Take powdered lickorice root and Calermurus calmerus root enough for a handful each and mix with Opalite and goldstone water. Use cold or all you gonna taste is minarl._

_Coat the tongue with the mix. Cut down the cnter. THE CENTER! Don’t wanna slice a muscle._

_Say yer phrase over’n over until the blood stops. keep adding muxture the hole time _

_Go tell someone to jump off a bridge. They do it, you did it._

She’s a little more apprehensive about trying the persuasion spell. If she screws up, then she may lose her tongue. The foresight thing, well, her eye is already fucked. Still, if the eye thing works, she might be willing to do the other. If it doesn’t, she can just say she was sick of the damn thing; make up something about feeling like it’s rotting in her socket.

The computer screen makes her good eye ache as she checks through the tabs. She’s sure she’s found all the best deals possible; has double-checked with every possible online coupon she can think of, but she’s still hesitating. 

“Agate is expensive, “ she mutters as she looks at the little dagger. It’s supposed to be more for ceremonial purposes, not actual use, but there is an option to have it sharpened —for thirty dollars more, the bastards— but Vriska doesn’t know how to sharpen a normal knife let alone one made out of stone. Might as well have the professionals do it so she’s not throwing money down the toilet.

Still, she’s spending over two hundred dollars on this stuff; stuff she’s not even sure will work.

Chewing on her lip, Vriska turns back to the luck spell. 

“I think I have all of this,” she mumbles as she reads over it again. Getting up, she heads into the kitchen and starts to look. She finds the rosemary, nutmeg, vanilla extract, cinnamon, and thyme in the meager spice rack, and grabs a bag of her sister’s chamomile tea.

“Hope this is big enough,” she mutters as she grabs an old, dented mixing bowl from the cupboard and the meat tenderizer from the drawer. It is rusted in multiple spots, but she doubts that matters. It’s probably the first time it has been used since her father. 

The last item she grabs is a box of matches from the family junk drawer. 

Vriska dumps everything back on her bed before turning and heading to the door across the hall. She steps up to the warped wood and rests her hand on the knob, listening. The slightest sound of snoring slips through the door.

“It’s just a hairbrush,” she murmurs to herself before unlatching the door. She pulls it slowly open for an inch or so before jerking it open wide. The hinges cry out, but the sound ends quickly, and Vriska finds herself staring into her mother’s room. Yesterday's clothes are thrown on the floor, a variety of dirty glasses glint at her from her mother’s messy desk, and in the bed, she sees two bodies somewhat tangled. 

Vriska keeps an eye on them as she heads for her mother’s dresser. The dim light that slips in from Vriska’s room tells her pretty quickly that what she needs isn’t there.

 _”Damn it.”_ The door to her mother's bathroom is a dark hole in the wall, her bedroom’s lamp not strong enough to reach this far in.

Vriska glances back at the bed before turning towards it. She doesn’t dare turn on the light, that would just be a stupid fucking idea, so instead, she reaches out and starts to pat. Immediately something skitters away and falls into the sink with a clink.

“Shit,” she squeaks before she freezes. There is a gentle murmur from out in the bedroom, but no actual movement. She releases a stagnant breath from her lungs and tries again, her eyes more attuned to the dark and able to see general shapes. She reaches for a large, square one, but only finds a towel under her fingers. The next is a cool curling iron, though she can’t for the life of her remember the last time her mother tried to curl her hair. The bristles of the hairbrush are sharp on her finger, the little nubs having long worn away over years of use, and Vriska winces as she grabs it, too afraid to try and find the handle.

She steps out of the bathroom and freezes. 

Aranea’s looking at her blearily, trapped as a little spoon against her mother. Vriska stares for a moment before settling the hairbrush into her brace and stepping forward.

Even in the dark, they don’t need words. Her eyes flick to their mother, snoring softly, and then back to Aranea. Aranea replies with a sleepy shrug and a shiver. They are both above the blankets, and Aranea’s legs are bare under her dress. Vriska drags the corner of the comforter up and over as high as she can, getting it to about Aranea’s hip. Aranea takes it from there, tugging it slightly to cover her legs as she smiles at her sister.

Vriksa reaches out, squeezes her hand, and then goes to leave. She passes her mother’s side of the bed without pause. 

Getting the door closed is a little harder than getting it open, the hinges squealing like burning cicadas as she tries to latch it. The second the door does, however, she dashes into her own room and shuts the door tight; locking it as well. 

“Fuck,” she says, voice shaky as she heads to her bed. All the ingredients are there, well, all but one. She needs an item to act as the focal point. Vriska knows just what she wants.

The old, cord bracelet is shoved down at the bottom of her small jewelry box. It is made of blue thread, twisted and braided up with a brown, wood bead holding the two ends together; a rainy day craft project.

Tavros had picked out the bead.

Vriska tosses it over with the other items, grabs the book, and moves to sit cross-legged on the bed.

“To perform a luck transfer, collect blood, hair, nails, or any other bodily item to imbibe your talisman with,” Vriska reads. “Mix the dry herbs together that correspond with the luck you want to take, grind them together, and add the bodily item. The more added, the stronger the spell.” Vriska looks at her mother’s brush. It doesn’t look like she’s cleaned out the excess hair in years; there will be plenty.

Setting the book aside, Vriska adds the dry ingredients —tearing open the chamomile bag with her teeth— in with a large clump of hair. Bracing the bowl with her feet, she starts to grind the meat tenderizer down into the bowl, blending the items, though the hair doesn’t really do much. It just kind of clumps, filling up with the spices. 

Glancing at the book, she notes what each of the spices she chose does. Most of them are very similar, drawing in luck for money or just things in general, though the vanilla has the addition of stealing happiness from others, and rosemary takes protection; whatever that means.

“From this person I take fortune, I take fame, I take it all and lift my name,” she murmurs. “For what was theirs now mine shall be. I take their luck away with me.” She pours a generous amount of the vanilla into the bowl, and the smell fills the room. She keeps grinding. 

“Mindelynn Serket, give to me, luck and wealth and love times three. And if I dare to break this spell, three-fold the pain to me as well.”

She shivers slightly as wind finds its way through the cracks and whistles around her. The clump of hair and spices have become matted in the bowl. She stops grinding.

“I take you luck and put it here, this item that I must keep near. Should it ever break, my luck shall run out; I accept this fate.”

Vriska drops in the bracelet and begins to message in the ingredients. The blue turns muddy brown, and the granular texture of the spices tickle Vriska’s fingers. Even her mother’s hair looks completely different, and she is surprised when it seems to almost disintegrate beneath her fingers.

“Must be the vanilla,” she tells herself, even if that makes no sense. She looks back at the book. 

“Light the mixture on fire and repeat the person’s name seven times.”

The matchbox rattles as she picks it up. She takes a single one out, holds the box with her bad arm, and strikes the match against the side. It takes a few times, her hand unsteady. 

“Oh for fuck sake, it’s just luck,” she grunts before the match lights. She tosses it into the bowl and is surprised when it actually lights. 

“Mindelynn Serket,” she says. The fire gets...brighter? “Mindelynn Serket. Mindelynn Serket. Mindelynn Serket.” The flames twist around, forming a circle almost. The bracelet must be burning. “Mindelynn Serket. Mindelynn Serket.” The flames drop low, glowing white hot. Again she blames the vanilla.

“Mindelynn Serket”

The flames go out.

In the bowl, surrounded by ash, is a blue cord bracelet with a brown bead. Vriska blinks down at it. 

“What the hell?”

There is no hair in the bowl, no vanilla, no spices; just the traces of ash and the bracelet. She picks it up carefully, and a shiver crawls up her spine. Still, she slips it onto her bad wrist. It’s a tight fit over her thumb, but it goes on. It sits perfectly around her thin wrist.

Something on her computer dings.

“Huh?” 

Vriska gets up and goes back over. One of her coupon apps is blinking. She clicks on the ‘apply’ beneath the “Best Match” message. Her eyes go wide as she watches the price on her screen jump from over two hundred dollars down to just ninety. 

“Holy shit,” she murmurs before glancing down at the bracelet then back at the screen. She clicks the ‘Confirm Order’ button. 

“No going back now,” she murmurs as a confirmation page appears.

\---------------------

The lace agate knife glints gently in the sunlight, with beautiful lines of blue and white that make it look almost like a cloud-streaked sky. It is light, smaller than she thought, but the blade is sharp. She’s shredded a piece of paper and split a few of her own hairs. They hadn’t half-assed it at all.

“Vriska, I’m taking Mom!” Aranea yells from down the hall. 

“Alright!” she calls back. 

“Be home in a couple hours!” Aranea’s words are followed by a slew of heavy coughs. Mindelynn is sick, has been for a few days now. She’s also broken two glasses, lost her wallet, and has had almost a continual hangover. 

Vriska has found well over 300 dollars just walking around, has won three ‘doorbuster’ giveaways, and her arm is healing better than the doctor could have hoped.

“Okay.” Vriska sits with the spellbook, her little bowl of new-moon water, a henbane’s paste she made, and a few towels. Off to the side is the knife. Her computer is also off. RedGlare has been on her ass lately, ever since Vriska told her about the book, and she wishes she hadn’t. Apparently shit has been happening with RedGlare, none of it really good, but RedGlare won’t give her more than that. In exchange, all Vriska has been giving them are snippets about the spells she’s been reading. She hasn’t told her about the use of the spell, or how it’s been working.

She sure as fuck isn’t telling her about the spell of foresight.

“Okay,” she murmurs as she hears the distant sound of a car pulling away. Vriska takes a deep breath as she scoots closer. She’s got a mirror sitting in front of her as well; taken from her mother’s bathroom. It magnifies things, and it zooms in on her face as she positions it before her. Her dead, milky eye stares back at her.

“The most damage I can do is lose the eyes,” she reminds herself. “Not like it really matters,” she adds as she picks up the knife. Her fingers are shaking slightly, but she ignores the trembling as she pushes at her eyeball with her fingers. She can feel the poke, kind of. A dull pressure but no real pain. 

Vriska stares at the mirror, the blade raised, face over the bowl. 

“Now or never,” she mutters. She forces the lids back wide and draws the blade across. 

There is pain, dull though it is, the nerves in her eye long dead. It is followed by heat and the intense need to blink, though she forces herself not to. Setting the knife down, she starts to dig, and that does hurt. The soft skin of her eyeball is like that of a grape, thin and pliant as blood and clear goo slips out, falling into the bowl. It makes Vriska tear up, and she hopes that doesn't fuck with the spell, because she’s sure some has already gotten in the water. 

Something hard slips out past her fingers and plops into the bowl. A moment later something else does as well.

She fumbles for the knife. 

“Eight.” She hisses out, her eye burning now. More stuff is trickling out of it down her cheek, and it’s hard to keep her head over the bowl to let it drip in and stir. “Eight, eight, eight.” She stirs it eight times, repeating the words as she goes. Her stomach churns as she does so. She can see the little lens spinning around, the water turning a milky color.

“Eight,” she finishes before lifting her hand and pricking her pinky. The cut is shallow, but blood wells up easily and drips down into the bowl. 

“Kurloz, send to me knowledge of what can not be known,” she starts as she mentally counts the drops. “Send to me visions of what has not been seen. I give my sight in exchange for yours,” five drops, “I give my blood for payment. I give my pain. I offer a secret of your choosing to pluck from my mind.” A memory flashes through her brain; Tavros smiling up from his chair and how it had made heat bloom in her chest. She jerks her finger back before a ninth drop falls into the bowl. It lands just to the side.

“Oh lord Makara, slighted and sealed, give me sight,” she finishes. She’s breathing hard.

Wiping the knife on the towel, she goes to stir. Each time around she expects the water to turn pinker, but instead, it gets milkier with just a tinge of pink to it; like clouds at sunset.

“Now for the hard part,” she mumbles as she sets the knife to the side. There are two circular things floating on top of the water, and it takes more concentration than it should to pick them up. She gets one and then glances into the mirror.

The need to vomit roils in her belly as she sees her eyeball; the slit is dribbling clear liquid, a pink tinge all along the edge. 

“Just get it in,” she tells herself. Easier said than done. The two edges don’t want to come back apart, and it takes a lot of plucking before it opens again, tearing slightly. She shoves the thing inside, then with her other hand, searches for the other by only feel in the bowl. It slips out of her fingers a few times, but once she has it, it goes in easier than the first. 

“Almost done,” she whimpers. The left side of her face is burning as she pinches the deflated eyeball together. The needle and thread is a shaking mess in her hand as she leans into the mirror. It’s hard to get a really good look at what she’s doing at this angle, and the first stab of the needle catches her eyelid as well as pierces through the two sides of the ruined eyeball. 

“Fuck!” She lets go, but the needle stays in place, jackhammering as she blinks. With a whine, she reaches up and carefully pulls it away. It comes out of the lid, dragging more red over the sclera. Vriska starts to sew. It’s slow work, even though she wants to go quickly, and more than once she almost tears through her eyelid. But she manages, and when she’s does, she snips the end of the thread on both ends.

Her other eye is watering away freely, snot dripping from her nose. 

“Last thing,” she gasps as she slides her fingers into the paste. She brings them to the eye, and even before she touches, it _burns_. Vriska doesn’t stop her cry as she pushes it to the eyeball, following along the stitches. She doubles over, fingers still pressed against it, and dry-heaves into her lap while she does so. But she rubs, because if she doesn’t, then what the fuck was the rest of this for?

The burning does not subside, but she does feel a new sensation. It is a pressure inside the socket, and the eyeball beneath her fingers swells. She sobs as she scoops up more hensbane and pushes it against her eye, making her cry out again at a fresh rip of pain over the eye. But she rubs, and rubs, and rubs until all she feels is grit over the swollen globe. 

When she pulls her fingers away, there is thread wrapped around them. She looks back in the mirror.

The eye is still milky. The eye is still blind. The eye is completely whole.

“Fuck,” she croaks as she blinks. The paste in her eye is burning still, and she isn’t sure now if it’s due to irritation or the spell. Whatever reason, she wants the shit out.

Stumbling upward, Vriska heads to her bathroom. She turns on the sink, and not caring what temperature is about to come out, shoves her head under. Water pours over her face; one eye open, one eye shut, and she can feel the burning sensation start to dissipate.

 _’I did it,’_ she thinks to herself. _’I fucking did it.’_

The first thing she does when she lifts her head is vomit. It spills into the sink, filling the bathroom with the acrid stench of bile, and that just makes her heave again. The running water helps take it down the drain, and it’s pure luck the few chunks in it don’t plug the drain. 

Vriska stands shuddering over the sink, staring down at the water with one good eye, the other throbbing dully in its socket. She breathes hard through her mouth.

“Okay,” she whispers. “Okay…” Looking up, she sees two whole eyes in the mirror. 

“Eight hours,” she whispers.

The reaction is almost immediate. 

She’s in the hallway, peeking around the corner. The vision is slightly blurry, like looking through fogged glass, but she can see well enough. Her mother is screaming, waving a paper in the air, and Aranea is screaming right back. She can’t hear anything they are saying.

Then she’s back, staring at herself in the mirror with her other eye, the left one suddenly cold.

“It worked,” she mutters as she stares at herself, her voice a croak. She grins gently into the mirror. “It fucking worked.” She jumps in the air, cackling as the sink runs next to her. She’s done it! She can see it, the future! She can see it! 

“Multiples of eight,” she pants gleefully as she heads back to her room. She throws herself down into her chair. She wants to try again.

“Eight days.”

She is sitting in her room, typing on the computer, her eyes barely picking up words on the screen. Vriska recognizes the color, though. It’s Redglare. The vision only lasts a short time before she’s back in the present.

“Sixteen days,” she says with a grin.

Vriska's sight goes milky.

Her smile falls.

She’s staring at a coffin.


End file.
